


Dance for Me

by firelord65



Series: Holiday Fic Prompt Contest Fics [2]
Category: Divergent (Movies), Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: Christina (Background), Developing Relationship, F/M, Four (Background), Initially One-Sided Relationship, NOT a kink fic, Stripper AU, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 17:44:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11560200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firelord65/pseuds/firelord65
Summary: Tris - or Blaze as she’s known to those who frequent the club she works at - is damn good at her job. She knows how to tantalize, tease, and otherwise coax the cash out of her customers. She gets tripped up, though, when one of her customers seems to latch onto her not just for how well she takes off her clothes. Is he for real or is he just intent on “saving” her from her night job and the unwanted attention of his former friend, Peter?





	Dance for Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [murmelinchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/murmelinchen/gifts).



> This is a prompt-fill for the lovely Murmelinchen! One of my Holiday Fic Prompt Contest prompters, I was drawn to this so that I could take it and wreck all the pre-conceived notions that people have about table dancers. Particularly, I wanted to address how people think that they need "saving" from their decision (not that I think that that's where Murm was going with this). This is going to focus on Eric having to rectify his preconceived notions as to why Tris is working at the club as well as Tris equally realizing that Eric isn't just looking at her as someone who needs his help to get out of the field. 
> 
> As the tags say, this isn't a kink fic. If you're here for Tris to be an objectified sex doll, you will be disappointed. 
> 
> Prompt:  
> One of them is a table dancer and the other is a patron who comes in all the time. They don’t understand why the dancer won’t leave to do something better. After a while, they offer them the chance to be their personal assistant and get the hell out of performing.

“Shit, shit, mother fucking shit,” I cursed non-stop under my breath. The traffic around me continued to build up, preventing me from moving over to make the turn I needed to take. “I’ve got my directional on. You can see, can’t you, Kia?” My shouts weren’t helpful and there was no way Mr. Business Suit and Tie would be able to hear me in his town car.

They just made me feel better about being late to work. I hung back at the intersection, ignoring the symphony of horns behind me as I waited for the Kia to pass me on the right. Yanking my steering wheel, I threw the bird at everyone behind me and tore down the side street towards the club. 

Parking in the back was horrendous and I stepped in about two inches of stagnant rainwater getting out of my car, but I had finally made it there. I pressed my bag against the RFID lock until it detected my keycard and blinked green. 

I tore down the hallway into the changing area. There wasn’t time to fully re-do my makeup after I swapped my shoes and tore off my jacket. I would just have to pray that I wouldn’t look too pale under the lights until I could come back and actually put on a proper face. 

Max tapped his wrist, irritated already when I walked in. He was a bouncer for the front of the house most nights, but the boss had decided to let him try his hand at emceeing on the quiet nights. 

Nights like tonight where the only customers in the place were the real bar rats and a trio of guys drunkenly celebrating a birthday.

“Now coming up to the dance floor we have Blaze!” Max intoned, trying too hard to be dramatic. I twinkled my fingers and strode down the long stage, passing by Christina as she was leaving. “Say goodbye to Skyla. She’ll be around later in the night, so don’t get too upset.” Yeah, Max tried too hard.

The customers didn’t need to be reminded that the dancers were coming back. Hell, if we were getting off shift, it was better that they  _ didn’t _ know so they didn’t try to follow us back to our cars. I made a mental note to ask the boss to remind him about that. Again. 

Christina and I passed one another, moving in practiced motions. “Party of three. Only good tippers,” she murmured through lips pressed in a sly smile. I nodded, playing it off as a gesture to one of the men at the bar. 

I continued down the dance floor, hips rocking and arms spreading wide in an invitation to come and look at the new, pretty face. I went down and back up the entire strip of stage like a catwalk, heels clicking all the while. Not that you could hear them over the music, but I still imagined them click-clacking and demanding attention from the men around me. It put me in the right frame of mind, clearing away the stress of running in late.

A dark-haired guy stepped over to the stage from the bar, putting his drink down on the sleek black flooring. I moseyed over to him - he was closest to me and if I reeled them in right off the bat, they tended to pay all night long. 

“Hey there, handsome,” I purred. My knees folded, the motion always delicate and carefully calculated to be as attractive as possible. We were nearly level with one another as I leaned down to speak into his ear. “I’d love to get a drink with you later tonight.”

His face betrayed every bit of the carnal lust that my profession thrived off of. His hand came up, a bill folded between his two fingers. “Come down right now and lemme give this to you,” he yelled, too loud even over the music. 

I smiled - always pleasant, approachable - and shook my head. “It’s gotta go on the stage, hun,” I said. Standing up with a twirl, I winked down at him. He was frowning now, upset that I hadn’t let him stick his cash wherever the hell he wanted to put it. I hadn’t even taken off my dressing gown at this point. Not that it was even legal for him to touch me to tuck that money into my costume. 

Stepping back, my hand found the pole behind me. A twist of my wrist, tug of my arm, and I was levitating. Spinning lightly with the motion of the pole, I moved to face the other side of the club. The partying trio was on this side, their table close to but not against the stage. All three were staring hungrily at me and I gave them a stunning, meaningless smile. 

“Take off the robe!” one of them crowed, cupping his hand around his mouth so he didn’t deafen his friends. I toyed with the sash around my hips, raising an eyebrow. 

“This robe?” I mouthed, teasing the table with a glimpse of my bra strap underneath. Playing coy was my specialty. It was so easy to get them going, to think that it was their affection and adoration that was getting me to strip my clothes off and dance for them. 

How sad they would be if they realized the strings in my hands that controlled them and their over-open wallets. The illusion benefited both parties; they got to imagine that a beautiful woman was stripping down to nothing merely due to their attention and I got paid to do a give them a show.

Still, they were my clients and the show had to go on. The music dipped for a moment as the tracks swapped. I cursed the DJ we had tonight. He was new, jittery, and not that great at making the playlist flow. My smile never faltered as I paused to catch the new beat. Stepping away from the trio, I threw them a teasing glance and approached the pole again. 

Working the slowly twisting metal was an artform in and of itself, separate from the modelling and stripping part of the job. It had to appear effortless and airy while still warming the blood of those watching. Outside of work I spent quite a lot of time at the gym and dance studio honing my muscles to make it through the night. No one wanted to look at a girl shaking from exhaustion. Slipping meant pole burn, too, which could hurt for days and meant caking on concealer for the tender red skin. 

No, I loved flexing my muscle and working the pole. I started off simple, using every motion to taunt the crowd as my dressing gown flapped open enough to tantalize. The real show wouldn’t be until after the second or third time I walked down the stage, but the men still ate up the experience. 

Christina was right about the three men. They were pretty much the only tippers, hooting and hollering as I finally broke away from the pole to shift out of the delicate silk robe. I cast a sly glance at one of them, a cockeyed party hat on his head, as I let one shoulder and then another slip out of the rippling fabric. The robe fell into my waiting hands and I dropped it over the side of the stage with a flick of my wrists. More cheering from the happy trio. 

The music escalated at this point, rising from the soft pulse that had come on when I signaled to the DJ my intentions. I took another circuit of the stage, stopping by the hungry bar fly who had wanted to slip into my clothes. He was exactly where I’d left him, eyes dulling from the drinks he was lining up on the table. If I waited much longer, I wouldn’t get a single dime from him. 

“You still having a good night, hun?” I asked, twisting my stance slightly. It gave me a better angle as his eyes crawled over my freshly revealed strappy ensemble. Short-shorts with a studded belt strapped over them just barely stretched over my ass. My bra was made from the same material, not lacy like Christina or some of the other girls tended to lean towards. It had several extra straps wrapping down my torso. They let me pull down the shoulder straps without letting the girls out. They also enchanted the men who liked to think they were the S&M type. 

Bar Fly grunted appreciatively, flicking a tenner onto the stage when he finished mentally closing his mouth. I blew him a kiss and gave him a fantastic view as I bent down to pick up the bill. I resisted the urge to laugh as I wasn’t even done sticking the cash into my top and he’d already dropped another. 

Max caught my eye, waving four fingers in the air. I nodded, resisting the urge to frown.  _ Why was he giving me the countdown to swap? _ I’d been on the stage for such a short amount of time. He was seriously killing my profitability. 

The next song finished up as I tried my best to remain focused on securing Bar Fly’s remaining tightly fisted dollar bills. When Max cleared his throat a little too close to the microphone I took my cue to start my final circuit around the stage. I made sure to lock eyes with all three of the birthday trio. If I couldn’t get my tips up here, I’d try and get them to buy the birthday boy a private dance or two. 

Max announced my departure as Molly started onto the stage. She nearly slammed into my shoulder as we crossed over, and I kept my mouth shut about any leads for tips. She wasn’t supposed to start working until later in the night. Effectively, she was stepping on my profits. I was justified being petty. 

Storming into the dressing room, I found Christina sitting on a makeup chair. A cigarette dripped ash onto the carpet under her. Her thumbs flew over her phone as she texted her squeeze. “At least use an ashtray,” I muttered under my breath. 

She lifted a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Hm?” she murmured. I didn’t bother repeating myself. It wasn’t worth it to get into the argument. There was already plenty of ash and dirt crushing into the carpeting already. I hated smelling cigarettes in the dressing room, but the boss didn’t care if we all got secondhand smoke. By the time lung cancer started to affect us we weren’t much good to her anymore. 

“I said how’s boyfriendly,” I lied smoothly. As I considered my reflection in the mirror I mentally shrugged. I didn’t look too shabby, despite the clouds still spitting rain as I left my apartment earlier. A bit of touch up and a tiny touch bolder eyeliner was all I needed to fix up my look. 

Christina still didn’t look up from her phone, though she paused her typing to tap the ash into her high-heel shaped ashtray. Classy. “He’s not my boyfriend. He says that he doesn’t like that term. Too much emphasis on a loving, caring relationship,” she corrected. “It’s bullshit. He just doesn't want to have to talk about me with his judgy sister.”

It was a common theme in Christina’s boyfriends - sorry, dates. They had a thousand and one excuses as to why she’d never get to meet good ol’ Mom and Dad. It came down to her not finding someone who could see past her profession. 

Then again, it might help if she didn’t meet them all either here or at the other club on the other side of town she thought no one knew she moonlighted at. She denied it, but I was pretty sure that Mr. William here had been one of her clients at the other lounge.

“Either way,” I pressed, “how is he? He’s the investment broker guy, right?” I shook my body glitter to coax as much down from the bottom of the container onto the roller. I really needed to just buy another one, but I was upset that they’d discontinued my favorite concoction of red and grey glitter. 

“Nah, he’s an EMT. The real hero type. The other day he saved one of those people from that big four alarm fire on the East side,” Christina said. She sounded proud. I guess I didn’t blame her. I was impressed. 

I patted her on the shoulder and left the dressing room to return to the main room of the club. This time though I came out from behind the curtain and walked the floor. Tori, one of the  _ excellent  _ bartenders, waved at me and started to pour a tonic water for me to parade around the floor. It was mixed with a fun fruit-flavored mixer that glowed softly under the UV lights that she used in one of the signature drinks. Set dressing to the production that was the club. Clients saw us drinking the same thing they were getting wasted on and thought we’d be putty in their hands. 

Ice clinking in my glass, I sashayed towards my prey. Making a slight detour by the stage, I sent a simpering look at Molly. She was focused on a new patron that had wandered in off the street, her shirt already unbuttoned and several dollars sticking out of her waistband. 

Girls like Molly made us professionals look bad. Bar Fly looked awake now, too, shaking out of his stupor to wave what I thought was his last ten in the air. Now he’d get his chance to feel up a pretty dancer too stupid to acknowledge she could get us all shut down for the night if a cop wandered in for a spot check. Worst of all, that ten should have been mine.

My detour was successful, though, as I draped my discarded silk robe over my shoulder. Approaching the three party boys at their table, I switched to a more demure affect. “Do you boys have a spot for me to sit at? I’d love to chat with you,” I said.

Their eyes lit up and they took the bait hard. The one on the end, a dark-haired quiet type, shuffled over quickly. He didn’t say much at first, but he was definitely undressing me with those green eyes. Just the right touch on his arm and kind word would have him eating out the palm of my hand, I was certain. 

The one in the middle - Peter, I was quickly informed - was the birthday boy. “Twenty-six,” he slurred, holding up his drink in a toast to himself. He slapped down several small bills and shoved them towards me roughly. “For earlier,” he explained. 

I thanked him, gathering the scattered bills in the most casual, unhurried, and not-in-the-least-irritated fashion. It wouldn’t do to snark at the guy playing at “center of attention.” No, I smiled all teeth and barely concealed venom. He didn’t seem the type to want his girls to bite back. 

The final man at the table was less reserved and more polite than Mr. Birthday. He went along with my subtle teasing and cajoling, constantly upping the ante on a bid for some private time with me. I didn’t discourage his efforts - who was I to blame if they wanted to fight to overpay for a private dance? 

“Pair of twenties,” the blonde said, topping the bid off. I cheered and politely waited for the cash to actually reach my hands. Much to my dismay after all that in-fighting, the dance was gifted to Peter as, well, a birthday present. Peter shoved past his all-too-kind friend to grab at my hand. I slapped at him when he touched me, not hard but enough to be effective. 

“You don’t get to drag me anywhere, pretty boy. You follow me,” I ordered. The trick was getting it to still sound alluring. I was off my game after listening to the trio fighting for my affections. Peter didn’t look too pleased. Begrudgingly, I trailed my fingernails along the side of his neck and apologized for slapping him. “You’re lucky you have such good friends. Forty will get you two dances.”

I didn’t really want to give away the accidental tip, but hey, it was good customer service. He still tried twice to grab my ass as soon as I brought him to the private booth. I could tolerate the way he called me a “nasty little thing” and even the way that he picked up my discarded top to -  _ ugh  _ \- sniff at it. 

My patience ran out when he asked me how much more it was to have me suck him off like a “good girl.” I glared at him, seething. This wasn’t worth a tip or a return visit. I cut off my routine barely a minute into the second song. “You’re lucky I am a ‘good girl’ and haven’t socked you in the jaw yet,” I snarled.

He copped a feel as I leaned down to get my top. His rough, sticky hand swiped across one of my breasts, sending a cold shudder right down my back. Fucking  _ creeps _ . I backhanded him that time, not softening the blow. The  _ smack _ echoed in the private booth and should have been a signal to the bouncer down at the end of the hall. I got up into Peter’s face, shoving his back against the couch with two fingers against his collarbone.

“Touch me again and you won’t step foot in this club ever again,” I growled. For good measure, I stomped on his foot with the spike of my heel as I stormed out. I didn’t even get to send a bouncer in to kick him out because whoever was supposed to be working had abandoned their post. I sailed out the empty corridor into the main area of the club. Atop the stage, Molly froze when she spotted me. I realized then that I was still parading around without a top on, my face red with fury. Some professional I was. 

My feet tripped up on the carpet as I forced myself to slow down, to lock down the anger that was coursing through my veins. The night was still young. I had money yet to make. I walked calmly towards the remaining two men in Peter’s party. It was pretty likely that I wouldn’t make a dime off of them now, but I needed my dressing gown that I’d left there.

“He have fun?” The guy I’d been sitting next to was grinning like an idiot when I approached. Maybe I was disguising my anger better than I’d thought. I swallowed a sharp-tongued retort and lifted one shoulder lightly.

My dressing gown was where I’d left it, draped across the table along with my tonic water. I slid it on as I answered, “For the first dance. Then he wanted to have a little too much fun for what I can offer here.” I didn’t mention slapping him or my threat. The ice in my drink clinked loudly as I held the glass aloft. 

The blonde understood better than his friend, wincing. “Sorry about him. He can be a bit of a perv when he’s drunk,” he offered in explanation. The other guy was still a few steps behind, his forehead screwed up in confusion. Maybe Blondie wasn’t as drunk. 

I cleared my throat and offered both the men a vapid smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready for my next set on the stage,” I said. 

“See you there, then,” the dark-haired man cheered. 

Stepping past the table, I was stopped immediately by the blonde man. He slid another twenty into my palm. “Sorry, again,” he said in a low voice. I read his lips more than heard the actual apology over the music. 

“Thanks, doll. I can take care of myself,” I said as I tried to give him the money back. He refused to cooperate. Once again, he mouthed that I should take it with his apologies. It was a losing battle and I knew it.

Drawing his hand up, I planted a kiss on his knuckles. “Thanks, stranger,” I cooed. “Next time you want a private dance, you give me a holler, alright?” From the corner of my eye I noticed Peter approaching the table. Disappointment flooded me as the redness on his cheek had subsided. I’d wanted the blow to puff up just a little.

I let go of Blondie’s hand and sashayed away. I knew he wouldn’t stay the rest of the night; Peter’s angry insistence that they leave was louder even than the DJ’s bass drop. But maybe I would see him again, without his two other friends. It would be nice to have a well-paying repeat customer and he  _ was  _ easy on the eyes.

Before I was too far gone, I looked over my shoulder. Sure enough, they were leaving. I met Blondie’s gaze and lifted my drink in a silent farewell. He’d be back. 

I entered the dressing room and got ready to work the stage it all over again. 


End file.
